A Strong Heart
by 18 Umbrellas
Summary: A five year old Jenrya makes his first visit to China to meet his xenophobic, acerbic Chinese grandparents, who see him as only half a human being. Weaboo aspects edited out 10/02/08! Huzzah!


Disclaimer: I own some things, but Digimon is not one of them.

AN: Once upon a time, this was a godawful weaboo fanfic with lots of random Japanese smashed all over it like rotten eggs. Now it is a godawful weaboo fanfic that is only in English. I just can't stand looking at it otherwise.

A Strong Heart by 18 Umbrellas

The first time I went to China to visit my father's parents, I was five years old. Way-lin, three years older than me, and Tyan-wu, four years older than me, had been there once before; my little sister Shiuchon, or Shao-chung by her Chinese name, was only two years old, and this would be her first time too.

My mother, Chiei, was apprehensive about our trip; she was thoroughly Japanese, and my grandparents, Lee Hsong-yi and Suyuan, disapproved of their son Jann-yu's marriage to a Japanese woman. They had a deep resentment carved into their hearts of the Japanese; "because of what the Japanese did to China!" Lee Hsong-yi would shout over the phone every time my father asked him to please try to accept his wife. Suyuan was especially critical of my mother; she would send simple Chinese recipes with detailed notes in the margins, as if my mother was a simpleton in the kitchen.

The night before we left for China, all our suitcases packed up, my mother whipped up a batch of miso soup and pork dumplings, but her anxiety spilled like a wrong ingredient into her cooking, and though I swallowed every bite with a small smile for her, it certainly didn't quality as "perfect." I could see her stirring her miso soup endlessly at the other end of the table, probably imagining what her mother in law would have to say about such a pathetic meal.

Lee Hsong-yi and his wife Suyuan were very well off by anyone's standards, though they weren't inclined to share their wealth with their son. They had two homes; one was big and airy for summer and spring, and the other was big and thick-walled to guard against the chills of autumn and winter. Both had too many rooms, according to my maternal grandparents. They lived in a small house down on Shikoku, near the coast so we children could play on the beach. Grandpa Erisuke called the Lee elders snobs.

Hsong-yi even had enough money to hire some servants to wait on the elderly old couple hand and foot. One of these servants they sent to the airport to take us to their summer house, rather than grace the building with their imperial presences. The servant silently drove us to the house in an old car, making me nervous with his wordlessness.

"Good morning," I greeted politely in Japanese. The driver ignored me. "Morning, I said," I repeated, irritated. "I said--!"

"Aii-ya!" my father scolded me. "He speaks only Chinese, don't bother him! Sorry," he added in Chinese, directing this last bit at the driver. The driver nodded quietly, and no one else made a sound except for Shiuchon and her baby noises until we got to the house.

All four of us children were dressed in traditional Chinese clothing; Tyan-wu's was tailored, Way-lin's was regular storebought, as was Shiuchon's, but mine I felt was best. My mother had specially sewn my clothing herself, taking careful hours each day just to work on it. Embroidered clouds and ocean waves swirled across the front of my silken shirt, put there by my mother's delicate hand. I planned to show my grandparents proudly, that they would think better of Chiei.

My father shifted nervously in the Chinese slippers he only wore for these visits, traditionally dressed as well in an attempt to raise his parents' view of him. Against my father's better wishes, my mother had garbed herself in a lavender yukata with a soft pink obi that shortened her breath and stride. She fanned herself with a hummingbird-like hand until my father wrapped his hand around her wrist, stilling her.

Suyuan floated down to us in a dress of expertly woven yellow silk as we got out of the car, and gave each of us a long hard look. She frowned at me in particular. She babbled something I couldn't understand -- probably Chinese; I only knew the odd word here and there -- and stood there expectantly. I blinked at her in confusion. She babbled again, making the same sounds.

My father then said something in Chinese in my grandmother's ear, and she snorted disapprovingly, but nodded. "Where you get this?" she finally asked in broken Japanese, tugging at my shirt.

"My mother made it for me," I answered swiftly.

"Hmm," Suyuan said, narrowing her eyes at my clothing. "Sleeves too long, pants too short. Embroidery pucker. You do this by hand?" she asked of my mother.

"No, Mother," my mother replied, bowing respectfully. "I used a sewing machine. I bought a special attachment--"

"Pshaa!" Suyuan hissed. "Even with machine, cannot sew straight. Sad excuse for wife."

"I'm sorry I cannot please you, Mother," Chiei said gracefully, bowing deeply to Suyuan. Suyuan let out another snort.

"Doesn't speak Chinese, Jann-yu. You make very bad choice, should have let us choose your wife. We choose nice Chinese girl, not useless Japanese woman!" Suyuan scolded her son.

"Mother, please!" my father said indignantly.

"Yes, I see now," Suyuan said, tone suddenly changing to a sad one. "Wife teaches disrespect, you cast your weeping parents onto street, like so much garbage. Children and grandchildren will forget Chinese ancestors, know only of Japanese ancestors who slew Chinese."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Chiei said with a trembling voice, bowing low. She dared not look up. "My parents were very much opposed to our country invading China."

"You quiet!" Suyuan reprimanded. "Lies! Lies are all you have! Every Japanese is racist trash and iyou!/i" she shrieked, pointing at her son. "You dirty my family tree with such trash! Dirty! DIRTY!"

At that point, Shiuchon began to cry in my mother's arms. "Oh!" Chiei exclaimed distressedly, fumbling in her bag for Shiu's bottle. "Don't cry, don't cry, Shiuchon, just a minute..." When at last she produced a bottle of milk from her bag, Shiuchon grabbed it, and drank greedily.

"Now see, Mother? You've made your granddaughter cry!" my father said, glaring for a moment at Suyuan.

"Aii-ya! Why I not hear of this grandchild, Jann-yu?" Suyuan demanded, wagging a finger. "You have no time to call mother up and tell her about new grandchild? Wife's bad habits getting to you!"

"I'm sorry, Mother, but --"

"Forget, forget. Come. Let us go inside, have wonton soup. Should not be too cold, we not take so much time out here."

When we got inside, Hsong-yi already sat with a serious face at the head of the table. "Sit," Suyuan instructed us, as if we didn't know what to do. We sat.

"So, Tyan-wu," Hsong-yi began, speaking for the first time. "You speak Chinese well now?"

Tyan-wu nodded, much to my grandparents' delight. In the background, Suyuan babbled at servants who were bringing us our bowls of wonton. Tyan-wu and Hsong-yi babbled at each other pleasantly for some time.

When a bowl was placed in front of me, and a porcelain spoon painted in blue with a fish put in my hand, I looked at the soup warily. It looked like miso soup. It smelled like miso soup. So what was the difference? I dipped two fingers into the broth to taste a few drops, but Way-lin slapped my hand before I could put them in my mouth.

"Don't eat with your fingers!" she commanded. "It's bad manners and Ah-bok and Grandfather will think badly of you!" I shrugged and nodded, and shoveled the fish-spoon into the soup, bringing it back up for a closer look. I sipped it carefully.

"Oya!" I shrieked. "Ow ow ow! I burned my tongue, it hurts, it hurts! Ow! Water, water, ow!" A servant quickly brought me a glass of water, and I gulped it down until the burning sensation caused by the wonton soup was soothed. I thanked the servant, who merely bowed and returned to the kitchen.

Hsong-yi laughed, and said something in Chinese. Everyone else laughed, even Chiei who didn't understand Chinese too much, and so I laughed with them, nervously.

"What did he say?" I asked. My father answered me.

"He said you shouldn't be so greedy and slurp it so fast, or your tongue burn up and fall out, and then you won't speak any language at all!"

I didn't see the humor. "What...?" I asked, mystified.

Hsong-yi looked at me intensly. "Say something in Chinese, Jian-lang," he said, calling me by my Chinese name, his Japanese better but slower than Suyuan's. Suyuan stood next to her husband expectantly, having just come from the kitchen.

"Nihao ma, Ah-bok!" I said cheerfully, waving at my grandmother from my corner of the costly polished wooden table. i_Hello, Grandmother!/i _Suyuan finally smiled at me, and I felt good at having finally done something to please her. But Hsong-yi still frowned.

"Who am I?" he said, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Who am I, Jian-lang?"

"Grandfather," I replied simply. My father slapped his forehead in despair, though I didn't know why.

"No, who am I, Jian-lang? I am not Grandfather Erisuke."

Dummy, of course you aren't, I thought privately. But I kept this to myself. "Grandfather," I repeated.

"Jian-lang, who am --"

"Grandfather," I responded mindlessly before he could finish. What was the big deal? She was my ah-bok, he was my grandfather. Those were my names for them, and I didn't know any other, because I wasn't allowed to call them Hsong-yi and Suyuan aloud. Why did he keep asking me the same question over and over again? Was he deaf, or just plain stupid?

I received my answer right away. "You cannot even speak Chinese!" my grandfather exploded. "You learn nothing but language of demons, made mostly stolen Chinese!" In his rage, he left out words, making him sound like Suyuan. Hsong-yi's wrinkled hand flew through the air to land on my cheek, the first time I'd ever been hit.

I began to cry, wailing shrilly as tears raced down my cheeks. Shiuchon, always the upset baby, followed suit and started bawling as well. Chiei rocked Shiuchon, attempting to hush her. Suyuan was screaming at Hsong-yi, and Hsong-yi looked angrier than ever. Way-lin, in her usual way, slipped off before anyone noticed, and Tyan-wu continued to eat, oblivious to the din around him.

Hsong-yi stormed off, followed by his enraged wife, leaving us to ourselves. Shiuchon eventually quieted down, and I before her. My mother gave Shiuchon something to play with, and put her down on the rich rugs in the next room. Then she came to me, rubbing my violated cheek gently. "Poor, poor Jenrya," she murmured over and over again, filling her voice with sympathy. It made me feel all the better as she soothed the slap-mark.

"Mom, why did Grandfather hit me?" I asked my mother plaintively as she dipped the corner of a tissue into my glass of water and stroked it on my cheek.

"Because Grandfather was mad," my mother only said.

"Why was he mad?"

"Because he wants you to speak Chinese to him like Tyan-wu does," my mother told me with sad eyes. And then she patted me on the head and went to go collect Shiuchon and make us get ready for bed.

Suyuan was in charge of before-bed baths. She began with nine-year-old Tyan-wu, who insisted he was old enough to wash himself -- Suyuan paid him no mind as she poured water over his head in the tub, the washing here nothing like proper Japanese washing at home. The other three of us stood around the tub, watching this odd way of washing being performed on our older brother. Then it was Way-lin's turn, and Suyuan made my brother and me turn around while our sister was bathed. Then it was my turn.

Suyuan just about dragged my into the tub by the nape of my neck, and began to scrub vigorously, almost abrasively, my five year old body. "So skinny," was the only remark my grandmother made.

"Ah-bok, you're scrubbing too hard!" I yowled as she poked her washcloth behind both ears.

"I scrub only enough to make you clean, Jian-lang," Suyuan said sternly as she dragged her washcloth across my belly. "Do not complain." I winced as her washcloth poked into my belly-button for a moment, but obeyed in not complaining.

"You so skinny," Suyuan said again, dumping a buckeful of water over my head. "What mother feed you? Air?" She glanced at Way-lin, struggling into her nightgown. "Ah. Never mind; see why. Mother feed your meals to first daughter, make her plump like goose." Way-lin looked injured at this comment once she got her nightgown on, but she bit her lip and kept quiet as she clambered into the king-sized bed that was the children's.

"Aii-ya," Suyuan lamented. "So skinny, Jian-lang, so skinny. Will be weak-hearted little boy, will not be real man. Let others drag you around by ear. Too weak and you die soon, little Jian-lang." And she lifted me two-handedly out of the tub and onto my feet, quickly wrapping me in a towel. "Is not your fault you like your father, Jian-lang," Suyuan told me. "He give you weak heart, that you not hang onto family. Be strong as can be, and you will live better life than him."

I would argue that my father actually lived a pretty good life, but I refrained. My encounter with Hsong-yi still remained fresh and stinging in my memory, and I didn't want to provoke Suyuan in case she reacted in kind.

Suyuan toweled me dry, then placed me in expensive pajamas. Then she turned to wash baby Shiuchon. I jumped into the bed next to Tyan-wu, lay my head on his shoulder, and found I couldn't sleep for Ah-bok's words.

The next morning we were already packing to leave, and I was glad. Hsong-yi glared at me hard enough that I thought he would bore a hole through my head with his vision. Suyuan looked indifferent. A servant ushered us into the same old car, and a few more were stuffing our luggage in the trunk.

The whole trip back to the airport was silent. The servant said nothing; our parents said nothing; we children said nothing. Even Shiuchon was quiet for once.

One the plane, though, was different. Way-lin absolved out loud that she would become skinny; Tyan-wu had his discman's volume up so loud I could hear the beat leaking from his headphones. Shiuchon was, of course, shrieking delightedly in her baby way. For my part, I stayed quiet and still.

I looked up at my father; serious, with blue-black hair only I had inherited from him. My siblings' hair was all the dark sable color of my mother's. He looked straight on, his twiddling thumbs the only sign that he was bored out of his mind.

"Dad, why don't I know Chinese?" I asked him simply. He looked startled at my question.

"What? Oh... Because...Because your mother and I spoke more Japanese around you than Chinese..."

I thought about that for a moment. "Why?" I asked him again.

"Err.. I don't know, Jenrya. Ask your mother later, why don't you."

That didn't sit well with me, but I let it go, and eventually forgot about asking my mother.

And now, I am ten years old; it's five years later. Shiuchon is seven, and Tyan-wu and Way-lin are 14 and 13. Although it was my father's idea, we're all going back to China, one more time. I know more Chinese now -- enough to tide me over, I think. This time, Hsong-yi won't be angry, and he'll embrace me as his grandson Jian-lang, not Jenrya, a half-Japanese bastard.

The servant awaits us just like last time, stern-looking with his very high cheekbones that make it look like he is always looking at the cieling, and his gray wool chauffeur uniform with a cap.

The car is newer and better this time, it looks to be from the early nineties rather than the forties or fifties. The servant emotionlessly puts our luggage in the trunk, and holds the door of the backseat open for us. My mother gets in first, Shiuchon sitting on her lap, followed by Tyan-wu and a now-skinny Way-lin. I am last to get in, squashed between the door and my sister.

"Hello," I greet the chaffeur in Chinese. He nods without even looking at me, and I can only hope that I've made a better impression than I did five years ago.

We pull up to Suyuan and Hsong-yi's big house, and the chaffeur gets out to open the door for us again. I jump out, and move out of my siblings' way. Suyuan, her hair grayer than before, and this time wearing a cream-colored cheongsam, begins to descend the broad stone steps that lead from the house courtyard to the street.

I supress the urge to run to her yelling "Ah-bok! Ah-bok!" and merely stand there quietly. Hsong-yi, as before, still waits at the top of the stairs, watching with a critical eye. When Suyuan approaches, I bow accordingly. So do Tyan-wu, Way-lin, and even Shiu.

Suyuan gives us a smile, and lifts my face. I straighten up. "Jian-lang, are you growing up strong hearted?" she asks. I nod, having no idea what she means. "Very good, Jian-lang." Her old eyes crinkle up into the crow's feet around them, and she moves on.

It is only when I lie in the same bed that I remember her words to me from five years ago, and I place a hand over my heart, as if there might be tangible proof of its strength there.


End file.
